


A Promise Made, A Promise Kept

by Rehfan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frontotemporal Dementia, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Mother-Son Relationship, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:41:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles seems to be his mom's only visitor as his dad is always working.<br/>Unfortunately, this means he's there on the worst day of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Promise Made, A Promise Kept

He entered her room quietly, not wanting to disturb her. It was easier to visit with her if she was asleep. That way she couldn’t forget him again.

She slept in the fetal position today. She was so beautiful to him. Her hair and his were the same texture, the same color. The shape of their faces were the same. She had a single small mole beside her ear. She called it her star; she said his were a constellation. She was proud of him, proud of his humor, his energy. Ever since she went into the hospital, she would always make such a big deal over him visiting. He didn’t know what all the fuss was about when she was the one who was dying.

He touched her hand gently, feeling the skin warm and familiar. How many times had she felt his brow for fever? How many times had he seen her cleaning or cooking or correcting schoolwork? He was so hoping to have his mom for his teacher next year. He knew now that that would never happen.

Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled. He smiled back at her, blushing, embarrassed that he was caught being sad around her. Dad told him she needed to see him happy. “Hi, mom,” said Stiles.

Her eyes held confusion for a split second before they cleared: “ _Jasne oczy_.” Her voice was weak, but she sounded pleased.

The nickname of “bright eyes” she gave him when he was born still stuck in her mind and Stiles was over the moon; it meant today was a good day. “That’s right, mom. Did you have a good nap?”

“Mmm,” she said, blinking at him lazily. “The best kind of sleep.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she said, “The kind where I’m not stuck in a hospital and you’re out on that soccer field and dad and I are cheering you on.”

Stiles smiled at her. “I was playing soccer?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Of course you do. What else would my little brother play?”

Stiles face froze. “Mom, it’s me, Stiles. Your son. Remember?”

“Stiles?” She was confused again.

Stiles sighed. “Stanislav?” he prompted.

“Stanislav?” She was still perplexed. “My father’s name?”

“You named me after him,” said Stiles. She didn’t say anything to that; she just looked lost, her eyes scanning side to side as she struggled to remember. Stiles hated this battle, but something inside of him had to fight it each and every time because if she forgot him, it meant he didn’t matter. It made her love for him go away. And he couldn’t live with that. He could watch his mother slip through his fingers like water. He would stand and fight for her love for him because she would want him to, even though she couldn’t tell him.

“Don’t you remember the day you brought me home?” he pushed again. “You said dad was afraid to hold me. He was afraid to drop me? But you made him carry me inside the house because you had all you could do to walk from the car to the door? Do you remember that?”

She laughed. “Your father’s eyes were as big as saucers. He held you like you were a hot burrito. I had to teach him how to cradle you.” She looked at him fondly and then her face dropped in horror. “Oh, Stiles! Honey! How could I have forgotten that? How could I have forgotten you?” She began to cry. “I’m so sorry, my baby.” She reached for him weakly.

He moved to her, allowing her to wrap a frail arm around his head and neck. “It’s okay, mom,” said Stiles. He stroked her hair as she cried. “It’s okay.”

One of the machines was making a funny noise and the nurse came in.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” said the nurse. “I’m afraid you’ll have to step aside. I have to fix this.”

Stiles moved away and watched as the nurse double-checked her leads and the monitor. The alarm went away with the touch of a button. Claudia smiled at the little boy as the nurse re-arranged her leads and straightened her blanket.

“Who is that little boy?” Claudia asked her.

“Him? That’s your son, Mrs. Stilinski,” the nurse replied patiently.

“Oh,” Claudia replied, clearly still puzzled.

Stiles felt like he had been punched in the chest. He willed himself not to cry. It wasn’t his mom’s fault; it was the disease. It was the thing that was making her brain shrink and causing her to forget. The nurse gave him a warm sympathetic smile that belied a deeper understanding traced with pity and left the room.

Stiles approached her bed slowly. She was still quite sleepy. Dad had told him that it was the medicine that did that.

“Are you okay now, mom?” asked Stiles. He took her hand and she gave it a squeeze.

“I’m fine, honey,” she said. “Where’s your father?”

“He’s working today. He said he’d be here later.”

“You have to take care of him, Stiles,” she said. “He needs a lot of watching. Make sure he eats well. Make sure he doesn’t work too much. He always works so much.”

“Okay, mom.”

She leveled her gaze at him and brought up her head: “Promise me, Stanislav. Promise me right now that you’ll look after your father.”

Stiles stood up straight. “I promise, mom. I promise with all my heart.”

She let her head fall back to the pillow, satisfied. She was exhausted. He could see that. “Good,” she sighed.

He pulled up the visitor’s chair and sat in it watching her. She smiled at him. They sat like that for a long while.

Finally, Claudia broke the silence. “How old are you?” she asked.

“Eight,” he said.

“I’m a schoolteacher,” she said. “I teach kids about your age.”

“I know, mom,” said Stiles.

“Mom?” she asked, her brow furrowing. “Are you… mine?”

“I’m Stanislav, mom,” he told her. “You call me _jasne oczy_.”

“Oh!” Her eyes welled up again.

“Don’t cry, mom. It’s not your fault. It’s the frontotempo stuff. It makes you forget.” He crawled up in the bed with her. They rearranged themselves so that she could cradle him against her chest.

Claudia seemed lost in thought for a long moment. Carefully, she asked: “I- I’m dying, aren’t I?”

It was a horrible thing to ask a child. It was even worse to ask one’s own son. But Stiles was a strong boy, a good boy. And a good boy always tells the truth and looks a person in their eyes when answering a question.

“Yes, _matko_.”

Claudia hugged her son tighter to her and sobbed. Stiles let her.

“I love you, _matko_.”

She cried herself to sleep and Stiles slept with her.

He awoke to the feel of hands stroking his hair. The sun had gone from the sky and the overhead light was on in the room. His mother’s face smiled down on him.

“Look who’s awake,” she said.

“Hi, mom,” he said, yawning.

“Mom?” she asked. “You belong to me?”

“ _Jasne oczy_ ,” he said.

“ _Jasne oczy_ ,” she repeated. The words didn’t seem to stick.

“I’m your son, your Stanislav, mom,” he said.

“I don’t have kids,” she said, almost laughing him off. She continued to stroke his hair fondly. “Where are your parents, sweetie?”

Stiles had had it; he began to sob. “Mom! It’s me! I’m your son! Remember? Please remember!”

“I-” she began again, clearly distressed by the crying boy in her arms. “I don’t know… I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I-”

“Momma… _Matko_ … please,” Stiles begged. “I’m your son. I have your eyes. And your stars, _matko_. See?” He pointed to the moles on his face. “You said they were a constellation like in the sky. You have one, I have a bunch and you gave them to me, _matko_.”

“Oh, my _jasne oczy_! Oh my sweet baby!” The recollection hit her full force and she was tearing up again.

Stiles just let himself cry with her. Her disease was getting worse. He had never seen her so bad, slipping in and out of confusion. Stiles wasn’t too sure how it all was going to end, but he knew that it would be sad. He knew he was going to cry.

 

~080~

 

She had declined in health inside of a month. She wasn’t speaking. She wasn’t eating. The fetal position was the only one her body seemed to know.

Stiles held her hand as she stared off into the middle distance. Her breathing was shallow.

He leaned in and whispered to her. “Hi, mom. It’s me, Stanislav. I’m right here. Dad’s working late again. He says he loves you.” He sat in the chair, scooting it closer to her bed with his feet. He took her hand as soon as he was close enough.

“I love you too.”

A faint smile seemed to pass her lips. The machine on the other side of the bed let out a low solid beep before another louder alarm went off. Three nurses came into the room, one after the other.

Stiles was bustled aside as the nurses spoke to one another in snatches of phrases Stiles couldn’t understand. He heard his heartbeat in his ears as the alarm was shut off and the low beep persisted. He saw them feel her pulse, listen to her chest with a stethoscope. He saw them exchange a worried glance his way. He saw them shake their heads.

One nurse, Carol, the one Stiles thought the nicest, came to him and knelt before him. “Look at me, sweetie.” Stiles met her eyes with difficulty. “Your mom… she’s gone, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. Are you alright?” Stiles couldn’t answer her. The news was too shocking. She gave him a moment before asking: “Is your father here in the building?”

Stiles couldn’t speak. He just stared at his mother in the bed. Or the body of the woman that used to be his mother. She looked the same. He had it in his head that people changed when they died. It was weird that she looked the same. She was still his mom. Only she wasn’t. And now she’d never smile at him again or call him bright eyes or laugh or make dinner or dance with his father in the living room or argue with him over bills or button up his coat when it was cold outside or hug him when he skinned his knee or give him a Christmas present or anything ever at all, ever again.

Suddenly he wanted to go to her, shake her awake, screaming in her face for her to come back. He wanted to tell her how much he needed her, how he couldn’t do this alone. How he was just a kid. He wanted to remind her of how much dad needed her. She couldn’t go. She couldn’t. It wasn’t fair.

“Sweetheart?” she prodded. She rubbed his arms up and down gently for his attention, but Stiles was lost in his own thoughts.

“Stiles?” Carol asked. She took his jaw in her hand and moved his head in her direction. The turn in his head made tears stream down his face. “Stiles, you need to tell me where your father is, baby. Can you do that?”

“St-station,” he managed. “He’s at the police station. Working. He’s always working. Too much, mom says. He works too much.” He began to sob. “She never liked that he worked too much.”

Carol held him to her and rocked him gently. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. No child should be alone for this. I’ll stay here with you until your dad gets here, alright?”

He barely heard her. Stiles’ tears streamed down his face unabated. His mother was gone. His dad worked too much. And he was an eight year old boy with a promise to keep.

“You have to take care of him, Stiles.”

Stiles was a good boy. And good boys keep their promises.


End file.
